The Cliff

THREE

Aamon was utterly alone in that place, high above the river on the bluff. He had so many talents and abilities, yet no tasks, no duties; he had practically nothing to do but ponder, fantasize, and travel to the lost lands.

He stood far outside by the cliff, waiting for the thought to fade. He enjoyed the view, but it always brought him back to his memories of childhood, which he prefers to forget.

His thoughts returned as soon as he strolled into the house. He then opened his eyes with a massive hangover, quickly closed them again, trying to shove the picture away, but it just never did.

He came to a halt in the middle of the corridor, struck by an unforeseen new thought. What was he thinking when he decided to murder her?

As the first beads of rain fell into the windows, a tinkling sound came to his ears, and as the clouds gathered in the sky, the sound deepened, making him so uneasy, apprehensive; it brought him back to the swing.

His heart's blood poured on the white snow, spread and grew, making the rest of the snow ruddy as well, and as he was carried in the air, the blood never ceased. The viciousness never cease. He shrieked loudly twice, but had relapsed into silence again; realizing that he was coming, not his father though, something else...

And as it lifted him further into the air, he gave vent to a horrified howl. He and still till this day is exceedingly terrified of it, and he constantly wakes up just as the memory is about to end.

He can't bear the truth, reality, knowing that he doesn't understand what it means and had never encountered it. He had psychosis from a good while ago; that's why, however he still believe in his imagination, in what he only sees.

He was so tired that he lay down in his bed and instantly fell asleep. He had that same feeling again, the feeling that had made and will continue making him suffer for the rest of his life; a dark, evil feeling coursing through his veins and it is impracticable to eradicate of it, of the memories.

There was doctors, wearing masks over their faces and wearing surgeon's uniforms, dragging him all the way to the hospital on a cot, but he blinked, something he should never have undertaken, he should've just maintained in reality and never drifted into...

They turned into demons, with their glittering, unfathomable, dazzling wings, were pushing him all the way to the grave. People above his eyes were chained up, wailing and weeping; the blood splashed on their white apparels was most likely not even theirs. They looked like animals.

Slowly regaining consciousness; awakened by the sound of a knock at the door. I said no visits; he thought as he stood on his feet, taking sluggish and gauged strides toward the door. Opening it...